


Thunderstorms

by clumsycopy



Category: Logan Lucky (2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24396601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clumsycopy/pseuds/clumsycopy
Summary: There's a storm outside and you're not eager to go home and spend the night on your own. Clyde might be the right man to help. That is, if you can find the courage to ask him...
Relationships: Clyde Logan/Reader, Clyde Logan/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	Thunderstorms

Thunder roars, lighting cutting through the sky and you swear the glasses shake above the bar. You shudder, squeezing yourself against the wall to your right a little harder, hands gripping the bartop, knuckles popping out.

_Fuck this storm._

You would have left earlier, but sitting there, peeking at Clyde when you thought he wasn’t looking was irresistible. He is a big bear of a man, but he moves with grace and fluidity as he pours drinks, making a spectacle of it. Boone County is still a new, and sometimes frightening place to you, but you always feel safe in the Duck Tape. Maybe it’s because of Clyde or maybe- _it’s because of him_. It’s easy enough to find you by the bar, every other night after work. You don’t drink much, you’re economic with your words, each one of them an offering that costs you a great deal of doubt and agonizing; what if you’re being awkward, what if you’re bothering him, what if he never notices you?

The tap tap tap of your foot against the stool sooths you and for a moment you forget the whirlwind of thunder and lighting that rages on outside. Your elbows slide across the bar as you rest your face on your palms.

A barrage of customers had weaved in and out of the bar the whole night. The ones left at his ungodly hour are known for causing a nuisance and get the good ol’ kick of Jimmy’s boots.

Clyde’s putting away the rest of the glasses, wiping the bar clean when he spots your pitiful form. You chew on your lip as you stare tentatively at the window. Perhaps if you look long enough the rain will stop. Your view darkens for a moment, there’s a shirt, no, a man, in front of you. Your eyes follow the trail of white buttons upwards until your gaze meets his.

“Darlin’,” he calls out to you, “the bar’s gonna be closin’ up. Can I get y’ anythin’ else?” He wipes the space right in front of your arms, making you shiver, because for the briefest moment his fingers brushes against you.

You blink, eyes widening because he just asked you a question and you didn’t answer yet and what did he ask you anyway-

“Yes!” you blurt out. “No! I mean, no I’m fine, I should be going home already.” You fumble with your backpack, your wallet in the quest to pay your tab, but the thunder crackles again and you twitch, spilling everything on the floor.

“That storm’s got y’ real good… Whatever y’ had is on the house tonight. No need to pull your hair ‘bout it. I’ll get y’ home as soon I finish closin’ up, allright?”

“Thank you, Clyde.” It’s all you manage to croak out before diving under the stools to fish for your stuff.

You end up missing the smile, the faintest twitch of his mouth before he walks away to finish his duties.

Soon you’re in his car, a spacious, vintage, cream-with-leather-seats type of car, that’s just like you thought it would be. You tell him your address and each mile closer to your place is like a twist in your stomach. The streets flash with lighting every other minute and the thought of being home, all on your own, during this storm… if you want to do something about it you have to do it now.

“Clyde, I-” You deflate, like a sad baloon that whooshes away until it’s forgotten under a table. There’s no way you can tell him this.

“Y'know y’ can tell me anythin’ right? Don’t ya go thinkin’ I don’t notice y’ campin’ at my bar almost every night.” His paw of a hand lets go of the steering wheel and pats your knee. It’s heavy, the weight of it squeezing your thigh against the passenger’s seat. In a odd way that calms you, grounds you, you’re in a car, _his_ car and no thunder can get to you. He wouldn’t let it. Clyde turns to you for a second, the yellow street lights dancing on his face. “C'mon, tell me, darlin’,” he coos.

You nod, hand shooting up to cover the one that’s on your knee; you give it a good squeeze, more for you than anything.

“This is embarrassing but I’m scared of thunderstorms and back home when this happens I normally just crawl into bed with my mom or sister but since they’re not here anymore canIsleepwithyou?” Your voice is almost inaudible and high as a lyre. You wonder if he was even able to hear you at all.

The car swerves to the side before straightening and returning on its course. "Y’ be thinkin’ I’ll be of any help? Me?”

“Yes, I do. That’s probably not the most cheerful scenario to tell you this, but I like you.” There, the cat’s out of the bag now.

His right hand moves to cover yours instead.

“Darlin'… of course y’ can stay with me. Anytime, anywhere y’ want.” This time he smiles, a toothy grin that lights you up.

You scoot closer, crunching his sleeve on your fingers, resting your head on his broad shoulder. The sounds of the rain pelting the car fade to a lulling melody, it is so comfortable to be this close to him. The car bumps and shakes on the dirt roads and soon you’re fast asleep, the storm long forgotten.


End file.
